Tis Better to Have Spied and Lost
by Cheyenne32
Summary: Sometimes, you wished that you hadn't been trained to notice life's every detail and analyze them again and again.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own it. And not really sure I wish to.

**Summary: **Sometimes, you wished that you hadn't been trained to notice life's every detail and analyze them again and again.

**Pairing: **A bit of Zach/Cammie, but mostly, I believe, Joe/Cammie. Abby/Joe are mentioned though.

**Status: **Yet to be decided...I may include another part, but I haven't decided. The idea is fresh is my mind although I haven't typed anything yet.

**Author's Note: **I haven't read this series in so long, but I did just finish _Heist Society_ which I got yesterday and highly recommend it to anyone. Since Ally Carter wrote both, I thought about this and decided to look in the fanfiction section for this. Anyway, I wasn't truly happy with the lack of Joe/Cammie stories and with the unrealistically of the ones that are posted and I wanted to write one of my very own. This is what came out of it. I do hope these are in character. (: Please read and review. Many thanks to all.

**Title: **''Tis Better to Have Spied and Lost Than To Never Have Spied At All'' is taken from one of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's poem's lines "'Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all" to fit in with the Gallagher Girls book series' titles that are quotes that have been altered.

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><p>'<strong>Tis Better to Have Spied and Lost Than To Never Have Spied At All: <strong>

Sometimes, you wished that you hadn't been trained to notice life's every detail and analyze them again and again.

This was one of those times.

This time it had been you to kiss Zach and disappear without another thought. This time it had been you visiting Blackthorne Institute and this time it had been you leaving without a trace, just as suddenly as you appeared, leaving him with more answers than questions.

And that was fine, plenty fine.

He needed to have a bit of his own medicine sooner or later and for once, you had decided to make it sooner. It was impulsive, the trip, and rash, unlike you, but something within you had snapped long ago and you had found that you were changing. Maybe too much so. But you were changing nonetheless and it was irreversible despite the need or want that you had to go back to how you once were.

And maybe you were better. You don't know, but you sincerely doubt it.

After all, no one knew about your secretive leave from the Academy, not even your roommates, although you had left a note telling them not to worry if they awoke before you returned and found you missing, which was likely. This wasn't your first time leaving the Academy secretively, and you seriously doubt it being the last, but this was the first time you left after feeling utterly _tired _of it and its ways. You were bored, although there was more excitement in your life than ever before. And maybe that was the problem. But you don't know for sure.

Also, as a change, this had been the first time that you had left and hadn't truly cared to return.

And this worried you. After all, Gallagher Academy was your home. And the only home that you have truly ever known, minus your grandparents' home and the townhouse that you and your mother had in Washington, D.C. couldn't really be considered such. It held your mother too, your friends, your _sisters_. But still, you found yourself fighting the urge to flee and never return without a second look.

Your skin itched and your body drooped. You were tired, oh so tired, so tired of fighting, of hiding, of _lying_, of even spying, the only thing that you had ever known and the thing that you were destined to spend your life doing. The thing that was in your blood. You needed a break, but relief never came. It was endless, but after all, you only truly had yourself to blame. You got yourself into everything that you had and now you were buried so deep in it that you could not tell what was up from down was when you wanted to give up. Maybe you should've. _Before. _But now it was too late. And maybe it wasn't entirely your fault. Some of this had just been thrown on you.

But you had always had a problem with not letting bygones be bygones and maybe that was what had gotten you to think point. That was your fatal flaw. Maybe that would cause your own inevitable personal tragedy, but hadn't you already experienced an ample supply of that? After all, you had lost the single most important person in your life: your father. And you had almost lost your mentor, your teacher, the only person who had any clue of what happened to your father besides the bloody Caravan, which, you remembered, _he _was a part of. And you were still young. What else could you lose?

You were tired.

Done.

Finished.

You wanted out.

But still you could not stop yourself from taking that long walk up the hill to the only home that you had truly ever known. (Of course, that was after you returned to car that you had…borrowed, to put lightly.)

"Cammie."

A voice startled you and you swirled quickly in the hallway towards the voice, somewhat disbelievingly that someone could have slipped under your radar, but maybe you weren't one hundred and ten percent, at your best. That could easily explain your mishap. Or maybe it was because, standing behind you, the person who slipped under your radar was the best spy that ever was. Or maybe never was, because no one knew of his existence, except a select few, which, in times, were increasing rapidly. You barely had time to consider his choice of name for you, but still it unnerved you. He rarely called you 'Cammie' usually resorting to the much more formal 'Ms. Morgan' trying to put some space in between you to separate the already close relationship.

You were the child, the only child, of his best friend, the man who had sacrificed his life for _his _own good. You were the child who would grow up fatherless because of him. And he was the man with whom you held no contempt because he was who he was.

He was Joe Solomon.

And obviously, for your father to do such a thing for him, he had to be important. And so, maybe that was why you had so easily forgiven him. Or maybe it was because, you hadn't quite accepted things at they were. Both were good excuses, but maybe neither was the truth. But you didn't bother trying to find it either.

"Mr. Solomon."

Maybe it was best for you, at least, to keep it formal, to keep some sort of space between you. You almost expect him to ask where you were, but he doesn't. He doesn't have to. He doesn't need to. You fight the urge to sneeze. The tunnel that you had used hadn't been used in quite some time and dust covered you.

He just looks at you. Apologetically. Pityingly. And you wonder if he will ever stop doing that. You don't like that. He's supposed to be tough, strong. You're not supposed to be the stronger of the two of you, and when you are, it feels as if the universe has been set off balance. And maybe it has. At least, yours seems to have.

"I wish you wouldn't leave."

The emotion is his voice is startling and you blink, as you try to decipher what kind of cruel dream this is.

Maybe you shouldn't have left. A whole society of assassins are after you, thirsting for your blood, for reasons that still aren't exactly clear in your mind, but still they are. You feel guilty now. What if your mother had lost you? Your grandparents? You were all they had left. Abby? Bex, Liz, Macey? Even Tina Walters? Zach? And looking into Joe Solomon's eyes, you think that you are quite possibly all he has left too, although you have no clue why. Since when did you and the teacher become so important to the other? You have no clue as to when, but you know all too well of what it felt like as he lay comatose, mostly dead, all those months.

"I couldn't sleep. Needed to take a walk." You lie to him, knowing that it is useless, but still you do.

"Don't. Not anymore." His anger is quiet, controlled, but his facial expressions are not. "_Please_."

He pleads and this _look _crosses his face. Sometimes, you wished that you hadn't been trained to notice life's every detail and analyze them again and again.

This was one of those times.

You wish that you could turn it off, but you cannot.

"Okay," you find yourself breathing, and this time, you aren't lying.

You won't, if this is that important to him.

He doesn't smile, but he gets happier, more relaxed, as if a great weight had been taken off of him. His muscles unclench and he nods, gratefully. "Thanks."

There is nothing left to say, but still, you find yourself unable to move, and so you remain still, just staring into his eyes. Eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul. And you can see why. They betray his every emotion, every feeling and you find yourself captured in them. He doesn't seem ashamed and doesn't bother trying to hide them for her sake. And you wonder what he sees in your eyes. Your guard is down and so is his.

And you can see why your father risked his life for his best friend's. Joe Solomon is a kitten in a tiger's clothing and you feel grateful, elated, to be one of the few who see this side of him.

A yawn fights its way through your lips and eventually, after a period of time you can only imagine has passed, you turn to leave.

You don't get far though because soon you're spinning around running towards him. He's still standing in the same position, just watching you. You throw yourself in his arms and bury your head in his chest. He's much taller than you are, but you seem to fit right into his arms. He wraps them around you tightly, and for the first time in months, you actually feel safe. And you don't even pay attention to how cliché that sounds.

You don't cry. All your tears have fallen. But you do hold onto him as if he's a lifeline, just as he does to you.

For the first time in months, you do not question yourself. You'll get through this. And it'll make you stronger. But you won't come out even relatively unscathed.

And all you hope and pray for in that moment, although you've never really been a religious person, is that all of those who you hold dear will make it through with you.

Finally, he releases you. Or you release him. It was a mutual thing, but you don't move far, just enough so you can lean up and press your lips against his.

It may be wrong. He is your teacher, or was. He is your father's best friend, or was. He may be Aunt Abby's crush, or was. But you don't worry over that. You will later, but right now, his lips are comforting, and oh, so much different from Zach's, and you need it. And he responds like you never thought he would.

And you don't spare a thought over your worries. You need to forget everything, just for a while. And Joe Solomon does too. And you're helping each other do just that.


End file.
